CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES)

by LAMBERT, JOAN DAHR

  As soon as there was light enough to see, they butchered the pig with their sharpest stones and stuffed themselves joyously on the tender flesh. It tasted magnificent, but the smell of blood was strong. Vultures were soon circling overhead, and Zena could hear the whine of hyenas nearby. In the daylight, they would not come close, but as soon as darkness fell, they would attack, unless a lion or tiger got there first. They would have to be careful.

  Lightning jagged across the sky toward the end of the day. Once again, clouds were beginning to form, but it was still too early to hope for rain. A patch of brush in the distance began to burn. Zena called to her son, Hoot, named because of the hooting sounds he liked to make, and Myta's daughter, who was his constant companion, and wandered toward it. Sometimes fires flushed out birds, and their eggs were left behind. Eggs would be good for the children. Hoot was as tall as Screech had been when he had died, but he was much thinner. He was always hungry. In five years of life, he had known nothing but drought.

  She picked up a stick from the edge of the brush pile and poked it into some bushes the flames had not yet reached, but no birds emerged. Few were left now; fewer still made nests. She and the children searched the whole area, but found no eggs. Disappointed, she started back toward the clearing.

  A hyena passed by, cringing low. Zena called sharply to the children and waved the stick to scare it off. It turned and fled. She stopped, surprised. Never before had she been able to frighten away a hyena so easily.

  A glow at the end of the stick caught her attention. It was burning there, she realized, and when she had waved it, the fire had brightened into flames. Perhaps that was what had frightened the hyena. She ran back for Dak and led him to the pile of smoldering brush, leaving the children with Myta. Motioning to him to do the same, she found another stick with fire at one end. Together, they approached a grassy area where the hyenas often hid and waved the sticks. Low whimpers of fear emerged, and then the sound of many feet loping away.

  Zena and Dak stared at each other, intuitively aware that they had discovered something very important, something that would change their lives. They called to the others to get more burning sticks, as many as they could find. When darkness came, they placed the sticks around the pig and piled dry grasses and brush on top, to make the fire bigger. Then they concealed themselves in the shelter and watched to see what would happen.

  A young lion came first. It slunk around the edges of the clearing, eyeing the fire cautiously. Twice, it darted forward, as if to grab the pig. Each time, it retreated, and finally it disappeared. The hyenas came next. They crawled stealthily toward the pig, then turned away, whimpering with fear. Even the vultures would not approach.

  The others looked at Zena and Dak incredulously. The burning sticks worked! They crept warily out of the shelter and approached the fire. Its fierce heat seared their skin, and the crackling blaze spat sparks at their faces. They drew back and watched from a distance until it burned less fiercely, then they came gradually closer. The leaping flames mesmerized them, held them motionless with their strange beauty. For a long time, they sat as if hypnotized, staring into the scarlet flames, soaking up their warmth and power.

  Slowly, the fire died down and became embers. Released from its spell, they shook themselves and went to find more dry brush and grasses. These were like food to the flames, they knew, and would keep them alive. All night long, they took turns watching the fire and feeding it so it would not disappear. When Zena awoke in the morning, its pungent smell still filled the air, and she sighed with relief. Already, fire seemed an essential part of their lives, and she did not want to lose it.

  The pig kept them fed for many days. Then it began to rot in the hot sun, and the smell became overwhelming. There was not much left anyway, and they let the vultures have it. After that, there was no more food, and Zena knew they would have to leave. Klep and the twins had seen antelope and zebra still feeding in the vast grasslands to the north, so she led the group in that direction. They brought burning sticks with them, to make fires at night, and tended them carefully so they would not go out.

  The sky was thick with vultures as they approached the grasslands. Their soaring bodies almost blocked out the sun, and their hoarse croaks filled the air. Zena stared up at them, shivering despite the heat. Vultures no longer frightened her, but never before had she seen so many in one place. The constant swirl of heavy wings, the ceaseless clamor, made her skin prickle, gave her a strange feeling of wrongness. There was a smell too - the smell of death.

  She looked down to see what had attracted the vultures. At first, she did not see the carcasses, for they were almost hidden by the mass of ungainly birds. Then she made out the shapes of muzzles, of curving horns and splayed hoofs, and she cringed. Bodies were everywhere; they littered the baking ground, filled the air with their stench, as if this fourth year without rain had abruptly pushed the weakest animals past the breaking point, and they had all died at once.

  In the distance, she saw lions fighting over a dead zebra. Off to the left, a tiger dragged an antelope into the trees. Hyenas snapped and whined behind it. Wild dogs with big, upright ears trotted through the carnage, their bellies distended with gorging. Over it all, the vultures soared, then dropped to tear at the stinking flesh.

  A bitter taste of nausea rose in Zena's throat. She swallowed it back determinedly. They needed food desperately, and at least some of the carcasses would be fresh. If they waved their burning sticks, they might be able to frighten the other animals away and grab some chunks of meat.

  Myta and Lop stayed behind, in a dry stream bed shaded by trees, to guard Tipp and the two younger children. The others followed as Zena picked her way through the long grass until she came to a carcass that seemed fresh. Vultures covered its head, and a group of hyenas snapped at its haunches. Yelling loudly, she brandished her burning stick. The males added their deep voices and swung their sticks fearlessly. Yelping in fear, the hyenas slunk a short distance away and sat watching them. The vultures were harder to frighten, but eventually they lumbered into the air and flew just above the carcass, croaking angrily.

  The group worked quickly. They slashed big chunks from the carcass with their sharp stones, twisted and yanked at bones so they could take a whole leg. Then they turned and ran. The hyenas were already beginning to creep back, snarling with renewed courage, and the vultures had landed again. Their stringy necks flashed in the sunlight as they jabbed furiously at the invaders.

  The next day, and for many days thereafter, they raided the carcasses. It was dangerous work, but they did not mind. For the first time in years, their bellies were full, their spirits content. Each morning, they feasted on the juicy flesh of a zebra or an antelope; each night, they slept contentedly, knowing the fire would keep them warm and safe. It drew the chill from their bodies, kept the impenetrable darkness at bay. Beyond it, lions roared and hyenas snarled, but none dared to come close.

  Most satisfying of all were the evenings, when they plied the glowing embers they had tended so carefully with fresh brush, and waited for the fire to settle into a steady blaze that enclosed them in its magic. They felt intimately connected to each other during these hours, as if the fire had somehow made them one. Sometimes they exchanged words, tried to recount the day's adventures, or tell each other about a new source of food, or an unusual animal or bird they had seen. Sometimes, too, they tried to find words for the thoughts in their minds. But just as often, they fell silent and stared into the crackling flames, seeming to understand each other's thoughts without words. It was at these times especially that Zena knew they must stay together. To be apart was wrong.

  Slowly, the carcasses were reduced to piles of gleaming bones, and hunger began to plague them once again. Zena sent the others out in groups of two or three to look for food, so they could cover as much territory as possible. At the end of the day, they returned to the clearing to share anything they had found, and to sleep near the safety of the fire. Foraging in sm
all groups was dangerous, but she could think of no other way to survive, unless the troop dispersed entirely. That she refused to consider.

  Lions and tigers had become a terrible problem. Their numbers had increased dramatically in the early years of the drought, when weakened and dying prey had been plentiful. Now even the carcasses were gone, and the big predators were starving. Hunger made them bold. Whenever one of the troop failed to return before darkness, the others were frantic with worry. Once, Dak did not come back to the shelter until the following day, and Zena suffered agonies of fear.

  But it was Lop, not Dak, who finally became the victim. One evening, he went with Myta to dig for water. Myta laid the infant she had recently borne beside her as she worked. She did not see the tiger that slid noiselessly out of the bushes and crept toward the baby - but Lop saw it. Waving his stick and yelling fiercely, he ran to stand over the tiny boy. Usually timid, Lop became violent when anything threatened his troop-mates, especially the young.

  The tiger roared but did not run. Lop moved closer and hit it over and over again with his stick. Maddened by the blows, the tiger turned on him instead of the baby. Raising its heavy paw, it killed him with a massive strike to the head. Zena and the others ran to help, but they were too late. By the time they got there, the only noise was Myta's screaming, as she watched the tiger close its cruel teeth around Lop and drag him away.

  His death left a gaping hole in their lives, despite his quiet ways. Always, he had been there to help, to pull back a child that had wandered too far, to sharpen sticks for all of them - for his were the best - to gladly give the others the food he had found. They felt suddenly vulnerable too. The tiger had attacked despite the fire that burned a short distance away. They pressed close against each other in the shelter that night, afraid to sleep lest another tiger come.

  They should leave, Zena realized, get away from the grasslands where the big predators hunted before any more were killed. But she could not think where to go. No area had escaped the ravages of the drought, and at least in this place they could still dig in the stream bed for water.

  Another danger, one she had not expected, finally persuaded her to leave. She had stayed in the clearing with her infant daughter, born this time without difficulties, while the others searched for food in the fields nearby. Only Tipp was with her. A twig snapped behind her. She whirled, fearing a predator. But no lion or tiger appeared. Instead, a big male, a stranger, stepped out of the bushes and eyed her pugnaciously.

  The baby whimpered in her arms, disturbed from its sleep. The male's eyes shifted. With a quick movement, he grabbed the infant's leg. It screamed in pain. Zena twisted away and managed to free it from his grasp. Pushing it into Tipp's arms, she mouthed the word for run.

  Tipp hesitated. She did not want to leave her mother alone with the violent stranger.

  "Run!" Zena screamed the word this time. When Tipp still did not move, she added another sound.

  "Others," she said forcefully. Tipp turned and ran.

  Zena faced the male. He was huge, larger even than Klep, but scrawny with hunger. Instinctively, she knew she could not trust him. There was no softness in his eyes, only challenge.

  The male turned away from her and started to run after Tipp and the infant. Zena plunged after him and grabbed his arm, to make him stop, but he was too strong for her, and she was dragged along as he ran. Pulling herself forward, she leaped in front of him. The male tripped and fell on top of her. He stared at her, surprised. Taking advantage of his confusion, and his position, Zena turned her genitals towards him. As he leaned down to sniff her, she picked up a large rock and brought it down on his back with all the strength she possessed.

  The male howled and rolled away. Zena landed another blow on his shoulder. He grimaced and raised his clenched fist. But before he could hit her, angry shouts distracted him. Dak and Klep, with the twins and Tipp behind them, came charging across the dry grasses, yelling as they came. The big male leaped to his feet and crashed away through the bushes. But the next day, he came again, and the next as well. Every day he returned, always at a different time. He was watching them, Zena realized, waiting to snatch an infant while it was unguarded.

  She shuddered. The big male frightened her even more than lions and tigers. He was like themselves, except there was no caring in him. He was desperate for food, and even the flesh of infants of his own kind would do. She kept all of them together, ready always to repel the next attack.

  One day, the big male did not come, and Zena knew they must escape while they could. Gathering the others around her, she whispered the word for "go". They nodded, understanding, and followed her silently from the clearing. Determinedly, she turned in the direction of the river. They would probably find water there, too, if they dug deep enough. Besides, there was nowhere else to go.

  The number of predators declined as they traveled away from the grasslands, and there was no further sign of the big male. Some of their fear dissipated, but their hunger and thirst did not. Once, the twins found a termite nest that still held insects, and Dak found some stringy tubers, so dry they could hardly be chewed. After that, three days passed with nothing but an occasional sip of water from the shell of an ostrich egg they had brought. Zena watched Tipp and the younger children rub their hands over their hunger-swollen bellies, as if to massage the emptiness away, and her heart ached with sorrow that they should suffer. She gave them the last dribble of water, to comfort them, and wondered if they would ever find more.

  They staggered on, bellies distended, throats raw with dryness. Another day passed with agonizing slowness; the night was spent dreaming of food and water that never came. Only the thought of the river kept them going, made it possible to put one foot in front of the other. Always before, the river had provided sanctuary, and they clung to the thought that it would do so again. But when they finally reached their goal, the hope that had sustained them drained away. There was no food, and no water at all. No matter how deep and hard they dug, not a single drop emerged.

  The small group sank to the ground in despair, too exhausted, too filled with hopelessness even to raise their heads. Then, as if on a prearranged signal, the others looked up at Zena, and some of the anxiety left their faces. Staring morosely at the ground, she did not notice at first. But then her skin began to prickle as the force of their gaze pierced her absorption.

  She raised her eyes and saw their expectant faces, saw their hunger, their thirst, the fear lodged deep in their hearts. Anger possessed her suddenly. She stared up at the sky, at the black-edged clouds that refused to drop their burden of rain, and she shook her fists at them harshly. The rains should come now. For weeks, clouds had been converging. They were swollen with moisture, and they should send it here, to the earth, where it was needed. They would die; all of them would die, unless the rains came. These were her troop-mates, the ones she loved, and it was not right that they should die.

  Over and over, Zena pounded her fists against the dry earth, then shook them violently at the sky. She screamed the word for rain, hurling it at the stubborn clouds until her voice was hoarse. But there was no response.

  The anger dissipated as suddenly as it had come. In its place came a terrible feeling of helplessness. She felt as she had long ago, when her mother had been killed, and the huge tiger had prowled overhead. Without her mother to guide her, she had not known what to do. She did not know what to do now, either.

  Lowering her eyes so the others would not see her uncertainty and fear, she handed the infant to Tipp and went to sit by herself in a small glen near the clearing. It was a peaceful place. She had often rested here when times were better, enjoying the sounds and scents. Now birds no longer sang, and no aromatic smells arose from the brittle grasses.

  Questions raced through her mind. Should she leave the river again, take the others with her, hoping they would come across a place where food and water still existed? Should she tell them to go off by themselves? The thought of separating
was too terrible to consider. She did not think she could make the sounds, the gestures that would drive them apart.

  Zena shook her head hard in refusal, and the gesture dispelled some of her helplessness. Slowly, determination returned. The group belonged together, and she would keep it together. Long ago, her mother had led her through the horror of a drought, and she had survived. Now it was her turn to find a way to keep the ones she loved alive.

  Zena sat and pondered. Slowly, her restlessness diminished, and a quietness she had never felt before rose inside her. Images drifted into her mind, of her mother, of the grandmother she barely remembered, of Rune. Over and over, their faces floated past her. It seemed to Zena that they were here with her, comforting her with their presence. Strangely, though, they were not separate. They were all in one, as if they had somehow merged into one mother, a mother who was much bigger, much wiser and stronger than any of them alone. But even that was not enough to describe the mother they had become. She seemed to hold within her all the females who had ever struggled to help those who depended on them, as Zena was doing now. They understood; they could guide her, as her mother and Rune had once guided her.

  For a long time Zena sat without moving, feeling the presence of these mothers who were one. Sleep did not come to her, but dreams did. She closed her eyes, to see the dream better. There were stones in her dream, a circle of stones. She frowned, surprised. But then she forgot to wonder at them and just watched the dream unfold in her mind. She saw herself picking up a stone and placing it carefully on the ground. It was round, weathered, as if the storms of thousands of years had taken away its sharpness and made it gentle. She put another stone beside it, then another, until there was a circle, a big circle, that would enclose many besides herself. Now she was standing inside the circle...

  The dream faded. Zena looked around her. There were stones like that nearby, at the edge of the woods. They were big and round, but not too heavy to lift. She picked one up and placed it firmly against the earth in the middle of the glen. It was cool to the touch, and her fingers lingered against its smooth surface. As if still in her dream, she went to get another, and another, and placed them in a wide circle.